That Anxious, Hunting Mood

How much is a plane ticket to San Diego? I mean, one that I try to buy right now. I think it’s totally unfair that the longer you wait to book a flight, the more it should cost. There should be a special rate for “impulse travelers.” Special frequent flyer points for those of us who are sitting at work at 11am on a Friday saying to themselves,

            “Why the fuck not?”

I mean, what do I really have to do this weekend anyway? I’ve got to grade some papers, and I was thinking of doing some more house cleaning or whatever, but that can all wait, can’t it? The only real tragedy of jumping on a jet plane for SoCal would be missing the Evergreen Terrace show Saturday night – but I think I’d definitely trade that for some facetime with good friends far away.

Am I the only one who gets this feeling? That urge to get up and just go – the pull to take a roadtrip without warning? -- To just up and jump a redeye to Diego, or Denver, or Hawaii, or ‘Zona, or Nola, or Korea, or the Netherlands, or just… wherever?

Maybe the airlines keep their last second fares high to help people like me out. Keep me in check. Almost as if I was calling the airline ticket office, and the lady on the other end of the line says, “Wait, have you paid the light bill yet?”

The problem is that when I get like this, I tend to be a complete a-hole, especially if everyone else is really looking forward to catching up on sleep and hanging out on the couch. It’s like I’m a red sock in a wash full of whites, and all I feel is trapped, trapped, trapped.

I’ve got a good book to read. I’ve got stuff I need to do. There’s a halfway decent punk show coming to town Saturday night. There are people here in town that I’ve lost touch with lately that I really need to call up and hang out with. I mean, the options are there.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it.

            Throw back some sake for me, winky.
            One of these days, I’ll be there with ya.